


Pages

by RNandSniper



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Ciri doesn't stand for male egos, Competent Bards, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Friendship, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Uses His Words, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Jaskier is pretty sure everyone is dead, Jaskier is wiser than anyone gives him credit for, Other, Reconciliation, jaskier centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:42:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22522696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RNandSniper/pseuds/RNandSniper
Summary: Nilfgaard's invasion trapped the Bard behind a sea of black and gold, and no one appeared to rescue him. His best intention to aid destiny in Cintra failed, just as he failed to get there in time.Given chance to assist again, set destiny on a proper course, what good can a lonely Bard accomplish, when the song has left his heart?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 33
Kudos: 130





	1. Elsa's Song

The seep of the moonlight was a poor illumination through the weathered slats of the last lonely structure. The indistinct outlines of what might have been a thin bar of sandalwood perfumed soap, a gentleman’s razor, a silk handkerchief, an egret’s feather quill, and bits of cloth covering too little food had rolled away from an upended canvas pouch. His ragged leather journal opened deliberately to dry, rested on a swath of moldering alfalfa. An idle stub of pencilled charcoal was placed by the stained vellum. The leather cover was discolored and roughened from the dirty river waters. The irregular stains on the paper within were evident even in the dim light, the pages not camouflaged by lyrics, stanzas or notations for a story. The first few pages warped together, hiding bittersweet music smeared by water a second time. The river wash obscured the salty droplets that first punctuated the page with hurt written into the words. The remaining conspicuously blank pages curled apart in the hours they sat forlorn. 

The musk of the original inhabitants of the hayshed filtered up through the smoky air. The once sweet smell of the shed was smothered by the acrid bite as winter carried on, the rising dusty damp perverting the freshness. The rodents had hidden when the latched door wrenched open and his body twisted in to drop unmoving amongst the feed. The creatures grew bold creeping nearer, sniffing at their surroundings with interest as the time passed without further commotion. When the figure stirred and had turned to dump out his pack amongst the straw, they bounded back to the safer corners. He rummaged through the items scattered about, until he leant back again, and seemed to partially disappear into the pile. The figure never moved sharply again, but the vibrations of the hay intensified. The small creatures ventured out, entreated by the scents emanating from the oil cloth sealing around firm objects, but the danger of the large figure kept them from making more than cursory checks.

The banging of the freed door against the sagging frame with the wind did not disguise the intermittent cracks of distant noises that were not natural thunder. The aberrant booms and the slamming of the door did not damper the hitched breaths that only settled after hours into a congested snore. Stronger gusts of sulphur followed the sounds of battle invading the shack. It mingled with the stench of newly scorched timbers in the ghostly farm yard. The odour associated with hellish heat played at odds with biting winter chill. It did not entirely mask the sweat, filth and blood brought in by the motionless man collapsed among the old grey straw. 

The noise from yells and horns rose with the morning sun, and if it were possible, the figure became more still. His breaths had become shorter and shallow over the course of the night now burst out as muted pants. The thickly accented voices bellowed cries, rallying them together. The uproar swelled with shouts, footfalls, and the beat of hooves against old roads, but soon receded, rewinding the procession that must have visited only days before. The ransacking of the farm, the cacophony accompanied by the black clad soldiers razing, murdering, and if they had time, raping could not be repeated as their prior thoroughness had left nothing but the overlooked grey boards assembled at the edge of a field. 

An uncharacteristically rough groan left his lips as impatient relief, followed by a deeper in draw, and a whimper. A gentle caress of a hand across a lute case in a familiar grip squeezed the comforting leather neck spasmodically. A squeak of air from his throat and the rustle of straw were both too loud as the piercing commands sounded again through the thinned forest. 

Jaskier blinked slowly and intentionally, mastering himself, and waited for the foreign presences outside to fade back farther away. He pushed his left hand against the floor, grimacing at the wet of the mud and animal faeces and tried to lever himself to his feet numbed with cold in soaked riding boots. The pull of his shirt stuck to his skin now tearing away from his shoulder blade was a fresh agony. He stopped. His jaw quivered, not from the cold, and his lips curled inward pinched by his teeth. The dull ache in his lower belly spurred him onwards, and the bard spun his instrument backwards. The splinted wood raked against his bare hand, as he slowly pressed the boards of the door away from the frame. 

Jaskier gave a furtive glance around, but no one greeted him. Two stiff steps over and he forced cold fingertips to work the laces of his trousers, and emptied his bladder against the side of the hut, ignoring the older brown and red snow that melted away. The sour feeling in his gut, did not compare to the sour smell emanating from the lumps of those unfortunates underneath a thin blown layer of snow behind him. The air had warmed up noticeably, allowing those frozen resting to rot. 

“I’d best move on.” His croaky words shocked him. His throat stung with the effort, and he was torn between the itch to cough, and a hopeless desire for some warm and sweetened tea. And a pang of guilt washed through him for thinking only of his pains when those bodies would stay exposed in the yard, until someone better happened through this way. The Nilfgaardian army did more than hold territory as they marched through to Cintra. They had not left peasants to till the land and collect tax from, spared no women and children or submissive farmers. The unprecedented cruelty of the total slaughter of cities and decimation rural areas had caused a storm of panic on the fringes of the war. No one caught by the southern force had been spared the brutality. The aftermath discovered bread horrific tales. 

Jaskier’s voice had not been tried since his failure at the ferry dock the previous day. No one had shown up to save him yesterday, or restore order, or better yet sanity to ill-placed soldiers fleeing to join their northern comrades on the right side of river, mustering leagues away at the Sodden bridge crossing. The men at arms had been a vanguard force, scouting the edge of Nilfgaardians. The undisciplined ranks of this pocket of northern forces had called their own retreat from the black sea burning and salting their way through to Sodden from Cintra. Jaskier had been unable to sway the soldiers there, unable to help himself or the peasants who had cried and begged to cross the Yaruga using the ferry. It fell upon him to protest loudly to the aggressively unhearing soldiers. 

The men had appropriated the ferry from their civilian countrymen, and reserved its entire use for their obliterated forces, leaving the refugees to a likely grim end. Jaskier’s impassioned oration highlighting the spirit of the northern kinship, the strength in unity had garnered no positive reaction from the men holding the crowded ferry, the last ferry for miles. The pillar of safety for himself and the other travellers trapped against this bank was beyond their reach. The only reward for his efforts was the haft of a long pike to his jaw. While the soldiers did not have time to aid their allies or countrymen, they took the opportunity to strike at the man who had half the fearful folk organized and queuing for next ride on the ferry which was never going to aid them. The army planned to burn it after getting their people across, as was standard procedure in troubled times. The only party to get across hours before must have held the group of merchant and nobles he had been with, and the prick who had stolen his horse overnight. 

The commander with a bandaged head who struck him then reversed his weapon and Jaskier missed most of the blade by dodging, unceremoniously landing in the flowing water himself. Jaskier came up choking on the brine, and immediate lost hold of his carpet bag containing hundreds of old poems and ballads, clothes, and the majority of his vittles. By instinct he kept a sure grip on his lute strap and a smaller pack. Almost everything he had was lost because Jaskier did not leave the heroics to heroes, again. 

The water was swollen with precipitation and Jaskier was borne downstream and until he found his footing and wrenched himself out before the banks became cliffs. His jaw pulsed yesterday. Jaskier was sure it’s coloration now rivalled his finest dress, forever lost to the wide river. The distance had been enough to let him see the crash of a horse and cart full of caged chickens hit the middle of the Yaruga and be rushed down towards him, and then just down. The last bit of the army must have shoved it off in a selfish bid to secure their own safety from the advancing Nilfgaardian forces. 

At first the pain of glancing off river rocks not yet worn smooth, and the shock of the cold water stole his breath. Then his desperate jog down the river bed away from the landing and through the woods, left him huffing. Luck did not favor him to stumble across a raft, boat, or some party to fall in with. The whip of the air through his clothing and his chattering teeth were his only company. 

Just as his energy begin to fail completely, the poor refuge Jaskier located the prior evening stood out like an infected blemish in the scarred rubble of the charred farmyard. It was in this shelter, a building so meek an invading army did not bother it wipe from existence, where he had spent the night. He rested up against it now in the wan light of the new warmer morning, feeling too worn, too unsteady in his riding boots to trudge away for an unknown end. 

A chastising, gruff voice warned inside his head. The bodies under the snow were likely going to attract the worst sort of attention, if not from predators, but also the necrophages who followed war more closely than prostitutes. Having heard a lecture in Oxenfurt about the purposed benefits of the corpse eaters in decreasing incidence of disease associated with the prevalence of dead bodies, he knew from years of dogging the witcher, the lives saved by limiting disease outbreaks were only balanced with those stupid enough to linger by the untended corpses. The living were devoured just as easily, probably tasted fairer. 

“Melitele or whomever you said your prayers to, guide you on your last safe passage.” Jaskier spoke, knowing he held the farthest profession from a priest, and wondering if those dead had believed in anything at all. 

Jaskier ducked back inside, and the corners of his mouth twitched down as he saw a large rat eating a piece of hard cheese through a chewed hole in the oil cloth. “Cheers. Guess you’ve earned it.” He tucked his few unsullied possessions back into his pack. He flinched as he picked up his last journal, the blank pages staring accusingly at him. His throat closed up again. 

Jaskier trembled wondering why he had bothered to go south, when he had accomplished nothing but endangering himself. Rumours of Nilfgaard’s activity should have incited a driving urge to be on the forefront of the news, a desire to collect the first hand story of the impending war. His sources among the gentry and poor had differed on the direction and the motives of Nilfgaard, but it had become clear too late they prized first Cintra. But Jaskier deceived himself, calling it his vocation as he strayed towards Cintra, not admitting he really searched for just one man. He had invested far too much of his life listening for those specific rumors, to be able to give up that vice now that the witcher was surely headed into the veritable lion’s den. 

Jaskier had been too slow find him before all reputable sightings of the White Wolf ceased. It had appeared Geralt had rushed through the villages, not stopping to work and made it to Cintra proper shortly before the conflict had erupted. And no one had heard tell of the witcher leaving the area through the expanse of the invasion, and now its ebb, pushed back by the allied north. 

Geralt falsely pretended to self-reliant. The witcher had always shown a self-destructive bent when left to his own devises for too long, and he must have truly felt isolated after the emotional upheaval with the adventure of Borch Three Jack-Daws. 

For Jaskier “See you around,” had become a bitter anthem of avoidance of someone who could not speak to call him even a friend or worthy companion. Jaskier knew he hid away too long among the vacuous attentions of others, nursing his own sense of hurt. His performances received rave reviews from bleeding the fostered emotions out on stage until only a deadened disillusionment gripped him. 

That weariness had been replaced by newfound urgency when he heard about the gathering of southern forces by the new Usurper Emperor Emyr, and his focus on Cintra. Jaskier knew then, Geralt’s insurrectionist heart would not let him hide away without aiding the ill-fated Lion Cub. Geralt’s bold actions had always defined his compassion, where his spoken words denied the depth of his soul. But fair words would have been needed to navigate the Cintran Courts, so Jaskier had endeavoured to intercept. 

And Jaskier now had been too slow and stupid to steal back up to the safety of distant banks, having failed both at shielding Geralt from politics in time to escape before Cintra’s fall, and keeping his own self away from the thick of the fighting. Nilfgaardian forces hunted on this bank in a meticulous line, pursuing those straggling civilians fleeing their homes. The tales he had heard from Cintra itself were enough to make his blood freeze, and he was certain no action of his could have outwitted destiny. No one had heard word of any one man, elf, dwarf or witcher making it out of that city. Reports from those outside the walls, and the braggadocio of the soldiers’ gossip confirmed fantastic atrocities.

Jaskier had counted the faces he would never see laugh or smile again in the nights past. Too many Jaskier called by name, the hundreds he had entertained, the lovely few he had experienced intimately. Valiant Calanthe, ended face down in the muck, indignities done upon her body. The charismatic Eist dead and left on a field to break down with his iron swords and armor. The stories of the Cintran nobles who determined their own dark fates. And all the children of the keep, their own demise ensured by their parents. For a child of destiny to finish like that, Destiny’s blade must have cut down the other side as well. 

Maybe if those tied by destiny truly did not believe their fate, they would be spared. But as wise priestess Nenneke said, the absence of faith has no power at all. But Geralt did believe, or at least had his lack of faith in everything shattered by the existence of the impossible golden dragon. When Jaskier managed to get out of the mess he was in, as he was sure he would, Jaskier would honor the fallen girl cub and the lion queen with a triumphant ballad. Something empowering, never maudlin, for a queen who would never have her state funeral. And something new, something more for man with insurmountable compassion buried in a heart that the world would not let the witcher acknowledge. 

A shiver routed through Jaskier, spreading from the wound on his back. Jaskier shrugged what was left of this cloak around himself tighter, and a pained moan left his chapped lips. The woods were quiet now, for what he must have heard in between restless bits of sleep would have been the battle for Sodden Hill. The north’s stand to hold the bridge crossing. The low sound of cannon fire must have carried for miles on the chill night air. What had been the likely retreat of Nilfgaard’s dispersed forces meant the war went well for Temeria and Kaedwen. The damage to this part of the countryside had been done however, and he eyed again the bodies under the snow stained red. The choice to wander towards a battlefield through disparate forces and hopefully arrive at sympathetic allied civilization, or to venture down river and into the backs the retreating Nilfgaardians before they withdrew south, was made easily enough. 

Jaskier’s feet should have ached after rubbing in the riding boots, but he trudged ever onwards. His path lead him southeast to wind a ways from the Yaruga as the elevation increased, staying to the forest to keep himself hidden from retreating Nilfgaardians. He avoided the exposed riverbank as it opened up to the mighty cliffs approach bordering Sodden Keep. 

All the times Jaskier had meandered through the wilderness with the witcher, confident of his inevitable safe arrival contrasted with his present anxiety. Even his boot knife that had spent more time honing quills and giving his charcoal pencil a point had been lost. Jaskier had ruined the luxury of a companion who had taught the bard as much of woodcraft as he had been willing to absorb. The details of wild flowers could be woven into song. What was edible or toxic was just frankly important before the dearest patrons, grateful taverns and opulent courts had redeemed his valuable talents. But, tracking signs and defence against the wild creatures had never been necessary. Jaskier had loitered in the great cities, and toured with the caravans since he had come off the mountain side where a golden dragon had meddled. 

Jaskier moved as fast as he dared, and bent to slip clean snow into his mouth at times, feeling dreadfully daft to be without even a canteen, and no one to share one to him. A small flask of Est Est weighed heavily in his breast pocket, tempting him. The day dragged on and he kept shuddering, needing to lean on the trunks and bows of the tall trees. A frantic laugh escaped his lips, and he keep himself moving onwards, the rush of the Yaruga in his left ear, the whiff of burning in front of him growing stronger. He had at least not stumbled into a pack of unfriendly soldiers, Nilfgaardians or otherwise. 

As motivation abated, instinct herded Jaskier onwards while his thoughts spiralled. No one was going to rescue him from this mess. There were no well-meaning people placed auspiciously to help the hapless travellers, and he had no one left who gave a personal shit about his continued existence. A Redanian intelligence officer would cross his name of a mental list, perhaps the Countess de Stael would remember him fondly when bored with her next husband, and the collectives of court scribes would hum in frustration when they could not get word to the illustrious troubadour Jaskier to come entertain some function. His music would persist at least for a time, only its subjects immortalized as long as the collective memory lasted. 

Jaskier blinked again, feeling more than a little melodramatic, which was wearying him instead of inspiring. Nothing struck him as worthy of weaving into composition, and he stumbled, suddenly more dizzy. He crouched to get another mouthful of snow, soon found himself on his hands and knees not by intention. 

“Fuck!” 

Wet soaked immediately through his trousers, and he grabbed a handful of snow to plop in his mouth with a vindictive motion. “Shouldn’t have tried, should stick to writing not playing the protagonist. What a cock up chasing him was. Couldn’t find him. Sure I would have fucked it up worse. The child surprise is dead, and Geralt dove after her. Gods, Geralt at court alone… if he would listen to me at all.” His sense of balance careened around, his brain burning. The pain increasing in his jaw confirmed the condemnation spoken, “He never would have gotten involved here at all, if not for me.” Unconsciously Jaskier fluttered his eyelids. “Geralt’s gone along with that poor girl…” 

Sure he would swoon, Jaskier tucked his chin down reflexively and vomit appeared upon the snow in front of him. The hum in his ears filled his thoughts and his vision whited out. He gave one last strong push to let himself fall away from the pile of sick before the world palled away. 

The cold against his face melted across his brow into his hair. The damp embrace was the first feeling of many uncomfortable sensations as awareness increased. He lingered sorting out up from down, right from left, where the devil he was and what strives of legendarily bad decisions propelled him onwards until he just quit thinking at all. 

The new rustling of armors filled him with enough dread and Jaskier rolled onto his stomach. He had to fully open his eyes, and time passed before what he could see made sense again. Forms coalesced out of the expansive white of the disappearing snows. A dark figure. And behind, men in chain mail. 

Jaskier kept low, his lips drew apart to take a small breath, unsure if he could tell this band’s affiliation, and if any group of armed men would take pity on a loner in the woods. Jaskier could not discern their chatter through the ringing in his ears, but the group did not notice him either. 

They trekked to the south for a hundred yards, visible in flashes between the trees before turning back east, towards Sodden and Riverdell. Perhaps a northern patrol, but Jaskier vowed to follow them into civilization from a distance, not wanting to get strung up for any one of many excuses to dole punishment on the unexpected and blameless during times of strife. 

The journey to his feet was farther than what Jaskier had walked that day. Jaskier hung his head and gasped, then forced a few deep lungful’s before beginning his march again. Maybe some outlying village was close, and the coins protected in his watertight lute case would buy him a place to warm up. 

Jaskier’s hands felt numb when he let go of his lute strap, too tired to hold onto where he had it secured any longer. His vision continued to be unreliable and he fluttered his lashes and squinted to keep focus, “Keep the river on my left, and the smell of hell ahead.” The words came thick as his face stiffened. 

“Sorry Geralt.

“Sorry I bore you into this mess. The lion cub of Cintra is departed, you would have done anything to wrest her from that fate.” 

He choked a cough out. 

“Sorry.”

And he did not hum or sing or compose to verse to write in the unfilled journal which possessed only the remnants of indicted love. In it held the acknowledgement of what drew his friend to repeated misfortune of heartache, and his inability to avoid his own the painful climax. The true heart of the score was revealed to Jaskier after leaving the sorceress and the witcher on that hillside. No wisps of melody or words came to mind now to express his laments or recapture this final great tragedy to dramatic prose. 

Jaskier tripped as his foot caught a rut of a proper road. “Oh.” He hefted himself off his knees again, unconsciously cradling his wrist after sharply gesturing to no one present. “This way then.” The pounding of his boots against it beat like a warning drum, but he could not make himself dip back away to the forest edge. Keeping to the road was just simpler. 

Jaskier walked with his eyes down watching only what was in front of him. The small gravelled stones were driven into the tracks by the passage of many carts, hooves and feet before him. He did not hear any more noise, not even his own footsteps, just the relentless wash of guilt recurring in his thoughts. A plaintive “sorry” to the wilds did not carry away far enough to reach anyone’s ears. The road loomed on for longer than imaginable in defiance of reality. 

Jaskier had stopped shivering now, feeling a calm. His shoulders slumped, and his hands hung at his sides. If a tinge flared up on his right hand, or from his back, it did not penetrate the haze he had fallen into walking on. The uneven pattern of a well-used crossroad nearly fouled up his feet again. Jaskier swayed violently, distracted by the sight of a building standing whole and undamaged in front of him. A few more shuffling steps and he propped himself against the cool brick, his eyes closing. 

A strong hand grasped his arm and spun him about. He could do naught but passively drift around with it, and when Jaskier opened his eyes, he found only an uncertain whir of color that continued after his feet had stilled. The hard voice cut through the pounding in his head. “Temerian check stop, identify yourself.” 

Jaskier felt his mouth sag painfully open, and he could only pant. Nothing approaching a reply reached his tongue. The answers spun around, dipping further away. Friendless Jaskier, the tavern Bard, never Julian Alfred Pankratz, absent Viscount de Letterhove, the paramour Troubadour, poet Dandelion, not the witcher’s barker…. Jaskier’s mind kept whirling with fleeting possibilities and he was sure it had flown away. 

“Fuck, boy. Easy. Men, a hand here.” 

An arm slid under his shoulder and gripped his sore wrist firmly and the throbbing roused him enough to jerk his face up. But it was a mistake and he shook violently, and more hands pulled at him. 

“Was well dressed for refugee. That’s silk and fine wools. Doesn’t look like a Nilfgaard swine to me.”

The hand that rocked his chin back and forth, swept across his brow, “He’s burning up.”

“One of you support his head, bring him inside.” The strain on his back fouled every one of his senses for a moment, or an hour. 

“Isn’t that the famous troubadour? Saw him perform once for Foltest while I was on duty, and then he played the tavern for five nights afterwards. Talkative chap.”

“Isn’t saying much now. Half his face is bruised. Surprised you recognized him.” 

“Seen his lute before too, has to be him. Won from the king of the elves he says.” 

“He’s got money for the inn, get him there, pay one of their girls to clean him up. His back is cut open. He’s half froze through, where there’s not with fever.” 

And that was the last Jaskier heard, before he was roughly lifted again, and he knew no more.


	2. Two Minutes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is growing as I write it. Enjoy some hurt comfort, had to fix up the Bard, a little bit anyway.

Nauseating flashes of being turned, limbs grabbed and pulled. His head pitched akimbo. A swinging wave passed through, as the light in front of his now fiercely closed eyelids brightened perceptibly. The foul smells of civilization, decomposition and ammonia permeating through the outside blowing winds. Time passed, and alcoholic fumes and sawdust to absorb overtook when the air hung thickly inside. He was becoming more discomforted as he was lurched about. Noise, speech, he missed. Then gruff words. A disdain. “How much he got?”

A bluster of protests exchanged, and people shifted him again, too many people around him. The wrong people. Missing people. A cold surface under his back and head… he felt like was falling through it, dissipating, failing to exist. He tried to buck away, find somewhere sounder, could not rise against the force pinning his chest. It tightened, digging in at five points.

A voice out of breath. Not his, though he felt like he could not get any air. “Enough for a fair price. Usual rate, pay a smidge for a few light meals. Sergeant’s coming by later, the bard better still have the rest of his coins. Won’t tolerate no thieving.”

The sounds hovered over him. The thick air was too heavy on his face, too restricting. The slam of an object next to him, a familiar twang muted, and a jingle, normally welcome with a hint of frenetic musical notes. He winced and grappled to get away from the presently loud sounds, banging around his head. A softer noise. More bickering, and the sound of coins clinking together, the slam of a wood mug on a table. A sigh. “A deal then, I’ll pay two nights for him now, if he lives you can square the rest with him. All healer’s all got called up to the camps, get one of your women, one I saw last few night maybe, Milah, to see to him. Man needs to get warmed, tended to.” 

“That’ll cost extra.”

A jerk on both wrists, being wrenched away, his neck bobbing too far back. Then up and over, until he lost all track of where he was, feeling too much pressure inside his face.

Sharp pain erupted with a pop in his shoulder stretched out by his back as he was curled around something. It pressed him hard in through the waist. The rush of the warm fluid, dripping to meet his neck and into his hair. And he found his voice finally in meager protest. “Hey, please. I, uh.” The effort was as poor as he had ever made, unsuitable for a trained orator.

“I gotcha. Almost there. Work it out with when he’s in his own right head. Like I said Sergeant will be by later. Nothing funny!”

“Fuck, Geralt please?” He tried, confused. Geralt was never rough with him when he was hurting. The grip on him tightened as his arms and legs swung. The fullness in his head increased, and it was getting harder to breathe.

“So upstairs in a room then?” Movement, rocking him. It was a most unwelcome addition to his torment. He was sure his stomach had migrated into his throat.   
  


“Nah, put him in the girls room, don’t want to take space from real paying customers.”

A low growl from the not Geralt. “What’s he then, you cheap prick?”

“Oh, gods, set him here. It’s the bard! Stopped here a few weeks back, remember!” A lighter voice, feminine, though the accent was different.

He felt unsafe, as if being dragged off a ledge by his ankles, and was dropped onto something not soft. The pressure on his diaphragm was gone, but a chance to draw in a restorative breath got captured in his throat. A cough broke out, instead of being able to catch his breath. “Sit him against the wall. Hold him upright. Be right back. Bran please set some water to boil.”

His chest heaved. Stars broke out behind his eyes. Little flashes of pain flickered in the building tension in his head.

His coughing continued, until he lost the energy, and just choked. A hand pressed him firmly in place, and he heard a tink on the floor. His chest quivered with exertion, everything seemed too much to worry about, and then it seemed no worry at all.

“Breathe slow, in through you nose, out through your mouth. Got some water for you, a little honey to hide the burdock.” She hummed, “In and out. Good. In and out.”

The world spread from the middle of his vision, dark corners receding, but not absenting. Jaskier tried to gaze at her, innately curious. Her face remained a blur, but a rich halo of hair and warmth met him. “My,” and he coughed on the compliment, magnificent too long of a word to speak with his lung capacity, “angel.”

“Hah! Not quite. Not anymore. Though I think you called me that in Ellander as well.” He felt the cup against his lips. “Drink. All of it. Slower, remember to swallow. Take a breath. And the rest.” The taste was too heavy. “At least part of your cognition is intact then. Or obsequiousness is really so compulsory in your personality.”

“Fuck got blood and puss all over me now. Good luck Milah. Guess you’ll be busy for spell then. This bard walked to the station, from gods only know where, and dropped, he’s cut up a bit, and seems to have fever.”

“Catch your breath again. In and out. In a minute I want you to drink as much water as you can, I have the kettle on the fire, will make you some ginger tea with willow bark and cool it down.” Strong hands worked quickly over his jacket, untying his shirt and his breeches. She removed every wet scrap, despite his ineffective participation. A flashing thought, it was the least effort he had ever made to get undressed with an eager woman. “Shush, your clothes are too wet, and covered in dirt and straw. I’m sure your back is already infected, but it can’t help to leave you in such condition. Now roll forwards, onto me, good now back. Put your feet flat and lift your hips.”

“Where’s. Uh. God I’m poorly.” He coughed again, and his stomach jolted. The retch hurt, and he tried to clench to guard the pain. But that hurt too. A hand that felt too cool, squeezed his left shoulder commiserating, belying her next words. 

“Nope, not allowed to throw up in here. That’s a rule.” She told him too seriously. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Missed the ferry.” Jaskier struggled to even recount any part of his recent past, unable to describe the walk, the night spent listening to the tail of the days long fighting, and hiding from the retreat of the Nilfgaardian men slinking back south.

A sad amused noise escaped her mouth. “Lacey, good you’re here. Pour the kettle, and make the tea sitting out over there. Yeah, another one, just as bad as the man in Yurga’s cart two days ago. Soldiers keep finding injured strays. Wonder how the last one did, sorry I missed seeing to him. With the corporal I was, he told me later of what happened. And I told him of my past. This one, Jaskier is going to stay in here with us I guess. Bran won’t occupy one of the rooms.”

An annoyed noise of disapproval. “We don’t want a man in here with us, it’s hard enough to get settled down after working all night. This is our space, Tommen would never have even asked.”

“Sorry, Bran’s an ass, but I must monitor him until he is no longer febrile and delirious. He could choke if becomes ill. And he needs us to keep him drinking and clean, medicated until he can maintain himself.

“Besides, do you remember him from two weeks ago, preforming here? I’ve met him before too, years ago in another life. He’s a puppy, loud but harmless.”

“On your head then. Don’t make it a habit. Haven’t you opened your own clinic yet?” He caught the new woman’s wink as he drowsily swivelled his head, too slowly to keep pace with the speakers.

“Okay Jaskier, where’s the pain?”

“Head, my shoulder, arms.” He stopped to take a breath, and another. “Throat, my head. My wrist.” He felt the mug against his lip again, and he opened obediently, swallowing back the harsh flavour of well water. “My head.”

“Sorry, the tea is strong, just a few mouthfuls and you’ll be done, won’t taste great, but it will settle your stomach, and reduce your fever, a bit.” The bitter taste made him shiver. “Okay, I know it’s bad. Keep going.

“Lacey, help me wash him. Get this dirt off him. Everything was on him completely muddy. Never seen such fine clothes ruined so thoroughly. ” He fell into a deeper daze, as the women rinsed every inch, his personal privacy disregarded. But the press of cloths, warm and cold rasping over his scuffs and bruises still felt good. A dump of water through his hair made him shake, coming back to himself again. Both women laughed. “Almost done now, that’s the easy part right.”

“We never get to bath them first, should make this expected of service?” The other women’s rougher voice chortled, “But I wouldn’t want to do it. This isn’t so bad though, he’s still pretty, despite looking like he went through the water mill. Don’t remember him, did he spend the night? Who with?” A blanket smelling like harsh lye soap was tucked around him. Another tucked underneath him, by both women, breathing hard, pushing him this way and that, not stopping to ask for his assistance. 

“Wouldn’t mind a policy like that either. But this Jaskier just played, kept his tips. Think you were off at market. Talked with Tommen, gods rest his soul, for a while, and slept alone.” She tapped Jaskier, the side of his face that did not feel tight and sore. “Jaskier, that’s your name right?” She waited for a bit, and he nodded wincing, once he realised an answer was required. “Okay, just checking. It’s going to hurt for a bit, and I don’t have anything good for pain. If you weren’t so sick, I’d let you get a whiskey or two first, but alcohol’s not wise right now. Do you need anything first?”

He shook his head, losing the message in her voice as it glided over him. It was too hard to appreciate the meaning in almost anything she spoke, but their voices were lovely company.

She pushed low on his stomach, he squirmed uncomfortably. She glanced around and lifted a pitcher and shrugging. “Okay this is going to be a lot nicer, if you just make yourself piss now. I know. I’ve seen one before I promise. Its normal, but we both don’t want have to worry about that in half an hour, when I’m trying address your wounds.”

The other woman chuckled. “We’ve both cleaned up worse.”

“Nenneke always said to be proactive.” Milah scoffed. “It’s okay, I got the jug there, you just go.” The hard coolness against his anatomy did not encourage the effort.

Jaskier’s brain, the part that was not completely asleep or fighting against the dizzying spin, or the pain, or just telling him to get moving, shorted in feeble embarrassment. While his face was already bright red, or just obscured by the bruised lump, he still felt a warm flush go through him. And he tried to relax enough to complete the request.

“So I should be probably explain where we’ve met…. Wait, we’re going to lay you on a pallet now, and Lacey is going to disinfect those scrapes and wash them with a little alcohol, sorry. And I’m going to examine your shoulder, wash it out, and apply a honey dressing. Nothing as fancy as at the Temple, but we will make do, best of this situation. To tell you the truth, the town healer being gone is definitely a good thing. The old fart was taught in some backwater, and still thinks leaches are course of treatment for blood poisoning.” Jaskier was lulled by her tone, and did his best to help lay prone onto the layers of blankets and linens. The floor still seemed to jab in at unlikely angles. The words rushed over him like a song, her cadence low and soft, rolling. He missed some of it he was sure. He heard, but could not remember. The next sensation was a jarring surprise. 

Cold fire sluicing down his back. His brain flooded with adrenaline, and the empty taste of metal dried his mouth. The burning sting accompanying steel wool being ground into back, ripping through into his chest. He shook them off, rolling away, only to be stopped by an immutable force. Fingers digging into his face. Moving him back, more pressure. The sense of a being worn away. “Jaskier, I know it hurts, be still. We are being as quick as possible. Jaskier, shhh, be easy.” 

“That wrist is bit swollen, I’ll try and wrap it for you.” The older woman spoke.

The pressure into his shoulder increased, he arched again, “Ow, please.” His face felt wet. “I’m sorry please.”

“Shh, getting closer. You’re doing well, for a bard.

“Okay just breathe. In and out. Wish we were at the Temple. In and out.” She seemed to be digging in his back with a pair scissors. The new pain brought a certain clarity. Or the other things she had given him brought his fever down enough to comprehend how bad things were going. Perfect timing, to emerge just in time to make things worse for himself.

“Wish there was a mage about. Should have him properly sedated for this. Literally digging splinters of hay out of his cut. I should have more light. Even some damn fisstech would have been something. All I have is fucking willow bark.”

“You’re doing great Milah, would have made right proper doctor if fortunes had held. You do right by us for sure.” The other woman knelt next to Jaskier, and started working her fingers through his hair, pressing firmly, rubbing fingertips into his temples and working around.

“Listen hear Bard, you’re in good hands. Do what she says, and you’ll be back to chasing adventures, and chasing your lovers. Cause that’s what they say about you. Never paid for it I bet. Not with those eyes and that smile.” She hummed. “Too fucking bad I say.”

The faces of many attractive women and half elves he had indeed employed came to mind. “What’s your name?” It came out wrong, a broken rasp. Jaskier forced his jaw to work, but she must have seen the effort, despite him pressing his face into the bedding.

“Hush you Dandelion. Trying to get you to notice something other than pain. I’m better at that, than this healing stuff. Years of practice. Even had the looks for it once, to match my name. – Lacey.” She kept working at every tense spot, moving to his neck. 

Jaskier could not see her, to assess the truth of her words. But it hardly mattered, the harshness of her profession had clearly had not stripped her of her beautiful spirit. He tried to concentrate on the exquisite massage. A sense of earnestness crested him and his jaw creaked open. Old habits were hard to break, not that he would admit to old anything. “Bit hard on yourself, your countenance as dainty as the fine china used by queens, not unravelled by passage of time.”

Both women snorted. “Melitele, he’s loopy.” 

A cold wet dressing pressed into gash across his right shoulder. “Okay, you will sit up so I can secure it, you’ll feel faint I’m sure. We’ll help, keep taking deep breaths, go slow. Go slow! But hold on to us if you can, help us keep you sitting, and I’ll give you some more tea, just ginger and honey okay.”

They helped him shuffle over, while the younger woman Milah, kept her dressing in place, then padded a few more pieces over it. She reached around his whole chest, unrolling what appeared to be appropriated stockings.

“I boiled those dressings this morning, I’ll prepare more now I guess. A few of the unlucky farmers have stopped by, ones who ran fast enough.” Milah rinsed her hands in what was left of the cleaner water, and smiled as the other woman pressed two mugs to her hands.

“The one on the left is yours, with a touch of the better whiskey in it. Bran says you are to stay working in here, watching the Bard, says he agreed to pay our normal fair for one on one services.” Lacey chortled. “I don’t know if you’ll have an easier night or not. I’ve got a customer waiting apparently. Not sure where the creep got the coin after Nilfgaard took all of his stock.”

“Good luck. I’ll get him settled.” Jaskier drank the rest of what Milah demanded, and wooziness returned in force, and she let him lay back, with a cool cloth across his forehead and eyes to block out the harsh light of the day. A restless and uneasy sleep took him.

Hours later, Jaskier sweated profusely, and had trouble staying still, every position providing some new method of torture. Distracting himself by trying to make conversation with the woman sitting cross-legged near him, was confounding, each topic the next Deja vu. It seemed a dream. Many of the things he spoke to her, she seemed to know already. And she was ever persistent with her foul teas, the endless jug of water, and the larger jug for what came after drinking too much liquid. And she could not be talked into serving even a single pint of beer. 

As Milah observed the color the second jug after again holding it in place between his thighs, she nodded in what seemed to be approval. She stood slowly, obviously stiff herself, to go dump it again.

“I hope you don’t get those containers confused.” Jaskier told her being churlish. He missed the expression on her face and Jaskier frowned as she left the room.

Jaskier’s eyes roved over everything again in boredom, but things were hard enough to grasp on to now. It was as though he was trying to analyse a complex portrait done in some novel style to evoke unexplored emotions. Of the seven liberal arts, physical art offered him the least interest, unless it was piece illustrating an evocative romance or great beauty.

The small room was flourished with a few personal touches illustrating the complexity of even a working girl’s life. The scents wafting from the top shelf of a shared chest of drawers against the far wall were not perfumes, and bunches of herbs tied hanging in the darkest corner of the room were not for cooking. But a clay vase held brilliant blue dried roses. A book was perhaps the most unusual object, hidden under folded clothes and linens, but the edge of the spine was visible at the angle he lay. Another woman had a small patchwork doll on the middle of her pallet, one had a pipe. Clothing hung on low lines against a wall, the dresses in as bright of colors could be found so far from a real city. The room itself was swept, and smelled as fair as sleeping quarters could, a pride emanating that felt genuine.

Two days passed in a pattern of restless sleep, his useless attempts not to disturb the other women he was quartered with, one of them, often Milah, finding him breathing faster with pain or fever, and making him a tea, helping him wash. They talked amongst themselves, but often spoke to him, telling him as many of the stories of the outlandish people they had met, often amusingly sardonic. Sadder was the accounts of the tragedy that occurred when a small Nilfgaardian group had seized the town a week back, and slaughtered everyone in what functioned as the common room and town hall down the way. They had left without a word to anyone, the carnage inside had been hideous, and like the rest of the war, unnecessarily brutal. The owner’s brother Tommen, had been in there. And the mood still hung on the town, in the wake of the rest of carnage of the war. Other travellers were drifting through the war torn countryside, like refugees from Cintra who had evaded foreign soldiers.

Stories metered through and Jaskier tried to engage in it, but felt so exhausted. Even when he was awake an opaque veil wrapped him, and every little thing, trying to stay polite and gracious were hard. Listening to raucous conversation he was too weak to join in and lead by grand example, the clink of glasses and the aromas of real food unaccompanied by his lively music to brighten the atmosphere, and the creaking of boards above him the pitch of the moans clearly absent of a skilled lover made him acutely aware of the absence of his favourite pursuits.

The relative privacy he had that night with being well enough to be let alone, as the women were working upstairs or serving in the tavern area was broken by a discordant noise, a scream.

A harsh sobbing preceded the heavy staggering steps into the room and Lacey collapsed on the pallet with the pipe. A smear of blood, across where she rolled away from him, seemed to appear ominously.

More shouting, calling for guards, and there was a pounding of feet, the thudding of flesh against hard objects. Jaskier tried to move, wanting to check on the woman. And find something to arm himself, in the absence of a better plan. And he quickly recalled he was naked, and more pointedly, he was weaker than a newborn foal.

“Lacey. Love?” Jaskier called to her, and she ignored him, rocking herself.

Bran poked his head in and swore viciously. “Ran the cunt off. Guards didn’t get off there asses before he stole a horse. You can have the whole cut dear, as consideration. Call faster next time, will you? This commotion is bad for business.”

“Give the good woman more regard than that, sir.” Jaskier broke in.

Milah pushed Bran out of the way as she raced back in. “Melitele’s tears Bran, get out of here. Go clean up the room yourself.”

The innkeeper, and apparent dethroned brothel manager winced back, and turned, but he tucked a few coins on the shelf by the door.

Milah shot Jaskier a pointed glance and he turned away with a groan, and drew the blanket over his head and tried to pretend he did not exist, more than understanding the unwelcoming of his presence. He vibrated, in fury. Geralt’s story of the rapist he dispatched came to him, and he wished he had his own sword. But that he was not who he was. Nothing but a bard that spoke too often, but never fast enough to keep others from harm.

Jaskier wanted to hobble over and offer the woman comfort, but felt paralysed by the immediacy of the emotions. Milah was trying to whisper, but in such a small room, it was impossible not to hear her questions, the hiccupped answers first unbearably sad, then growing more harsh, angry and self-deprecating. Milah filled another basin and stretched a sheet between her hands to provide a modicum of privacy while the other woman washed.

Heavy footfalls came into the common room, but Bran stopped what seemed to be the guard contingent from entering their room. His raised voice describing the whoreson, and he waved them off from questioning the women. “She’s my toughest whore. If she screamed. Well string him up when you catch him, cause if you don’t, I will,” was the last thing Jaskier heard Bran say.

“I’ll find somewhere else to stay,” Jaskier offered still trying to lay to face away from the women.

“You’ll do no such thing.” Lacey sniffled. “Milah the bandage on his shoulder has soaked through.”

“Okay, let’s get you settled first, and I’ll get you a drink. And I’ll set a blanket to warm by the hearth for you. Here’s your shift. I’ll do your laundry tomorrow.” Milah made to stroke her face. “You’re safe in here, okay. I’m sorry he hurt you. We’ll take care of each other right. That’s what you say. We’ll take of you too.”  
  


“I can’t believe I didn’t just kick him out. He was a pig last time, thinking money would impress me. They were only Nilfgaardian florens, like those will spend well for the next twenty years here. Bragging he got paid to watch out for some girl. Long ashen curls and blue eyes, aged fourteen, some Cintran noble’s daughter.”

Everything she said made Jaskier drop his heart. “He was paid in florens to watch for a Cintran noble’s daughter?” Jaskier asked.

“S’what he said, but who gives a shit. Entitled asshole. Thinks he can just pay for whatever evils he likes. I should have made him leave.” She made a noise like a whimper.

And like that, his world turned, what had seemed lost to the vengeful vagaries of fate bloomed back into existence. His mind whirled with possibilities, stretching through connections and patterns, plotting every outcome of every implication in this new information, this new chance. It was not even his chance, his happiness, but the future seemed to brighten.

“It’s not your fault, it’s never our fault. We don’t make them do anything.” Milah spoke firmly, but in softer tone Jaskier felt power behind.

Jaskier felt a tingling in his fingers, buzzing in his ears, and his face was numb. He gave a shaky breath. Must have been louder than he meant, as he heard Lacey start. Milah re-entered through door, her arms laden. “Jaskier, what’s wrong. You’re whiter than a sheet. Pain’s back is it, it’s a bit early, but I’ll get the tea ready anyway.”

“Give me two damn minutes.” Jaskier cursed, unsure if to trust his indeterminate relief, and if it really should mean anything for him. And he clenched at the wince crossing her face in fearful response. He forced himself to lighten his tone. “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” Milah watched him, a wary cast in her eyes that he hated. 

The description, the age, ands gods Jaskier performed at her last birthday six months prior, and had watched the girl dance and spin on throne room floor with more self-assurance than her mother carried. The mood of the evening had none of the waiting menace of Pavetta’s betrothal dinner. Calanthe had even let him sing a few of his more recent pieces, after getting in private word before. She informed if he spoke a word of the witcher to anyone, he’d be gelded. Eist had sent his fees to him after, with a startling if cheeky bonus, a gifted gelding horse, now stolen. If it were not for Cintra’s flagrant racism, Jaskier would have appealed for a permanent appointment there. He would not run into delinquent sorceress in the fiercely independent kingdom, or errant monster hunters.

But his memories of the girl he had suppressed flashed forward. Ciri had begged him to sing “Her Sweet Kiss” over and over during the next day’s luncheon, and the wonderment on her young face had been so endearing, as she started mouthing along. He had played, trying to stay true to the emotion, but he had watched her grandmother carefully, hoping she did not guess the song’s subjects.

And then their deaths… But this shred of information was a confusing burst of hope. He had been at the dinner, performing among everyone, no other girls had struck him with such a description. The royal women bore such a distinctive appearance, Ciri’s great grandmother had been her twin as well, from the paintings in the family hall. Nilfgaard’s focus on the girl begged many questions, but she must not have been found at the keep. And if she was alive, then possibilities split before him. His grief peeled away to leave him raw, and unsure if he should take any comfort in this.

Nilfgaard’s searching for the girl. Geralt’s child surprise. Did the witcher find her, were they together then… Nilfgaard paid real coin to have at least this man keep watch, had Ciri been confirmed in the area? The man must have some way to contact someone in the hierarchy, and there must be more spies about. Jaskier was glad his infirmity had kept him from performing, as he was sure he would have mentioned something regarding the pair, and painted a target on his back.

Jaskier’s two minutes had passed, because Milah set heavily in front of him. Her disapproval and tiredness stamped at him.

“I offer my sincerest apologies, being such uncouth boor, I’m unsettled this evening, more in heart than in mind. And I regret offering you even a single harsh word sullied with misplaced pain.” Jaskier said as gently as he could manage, when Milah pressed his tea into his hands. He gulped it back, learning as it cooled it, the flavor profile did not improve, and waiting only prolonged the experience.

“Don’t swear at me again. But, I understand this night is not happy. Besides, your bandage needs changing again, and if I was vindictive I would get a perverse pleasure at cleaning it out again. But I’m not, so you’re safe.” Jaskier tried to smile at Milah, but she turned to rinse her hands in the strong soap in one of two basins she had moved over while his mind was elsewhere.

Milah shook her head, and cooed softly as she tugged the dressing away from his skin, with the application of water recently boiled and left cooling in kettle. “Shush, almost done this part. The honey is doing the trick, no puss this time, the edges are much less red. Too bad you got it so dirty, would have been a much neater scar, if it wasn’t guaranteed to abscess and go gangrenous if we tried to seal it with stiches. Much better to heal inside out now.” She hummed as she worked, rinsing it, and applying another dressing as close to sterile she could manage, soaked with honey, and iodine salts. “Wish I had silver nitrate. It burns, but discourages infection. Costs too much and such things are impossible to find out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Do you think you’d go back to complete your studies, if you could?” Jaskier tried to ask, keeping his breaths even, puffing through the stinging. At least the wound was less sensitive than the days prior.

“After my father died, and I travelled to Nazair for the funeral, I found the family fortune squandered, I had no money for my return to the temple to finish. I tried to travel back North anyway, but ran out of funds early.” This part he was sure he heard before, but in a delirium. “No one would hire me for anything that would take me back to Melitele’s Temple, and I ended falling in with this lot after exploring a few less palatable options. Bran and his late brother did their best to keep us safe, and let us manage ourselves, and paid us enough to stay healthy. Least I’m able to save some money, can afford to help the villagers where I’m allowed, but no, I’m too old and too jaded to mix back in with those innocent young things.

“There and sit and I’ll secure it.” She threaded a roll of bandage around him a few times. She tied it off expertly, and washed her hands again, scrubbing them in the soapy water.

Jaskier’s hand grazed her shoulder, pressing gently as she leaned away. “This town is lucky to have you.”

“We are.” Lacey said, her voice small.

A rhyme struck him… “So wise and fair my dear she be, A healer and a lover thee, A grace on earth a prize indeed, Her worth no other could exceed.”

Milah considered him and shook her head. “I’m beginning to understand the stories about you.”

Jaskier jerked his head and whined. “What stories? Whose?”

Lacey winced. “Me too. If you’re feeling up to singing, would you, something soft, I want to get my mind away from everything, sleep?”

“As you wish my ladies, I’m afraid I’m unable provide suitable musical accompaniment with my lute. A bit sore, and my hands are unsure.” Jaskier nodded, trying to think of something appropriate to soothe mood in the room.

A deep breath, and Jaskier worried he had not warmed up his voice for such excursions in days, and had he spent too much time coughing and retching. He arrived on an old favourite of his, lovely, the notes exquisite, complex, and the rise and fall would lull his listeners. “She –”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you liked or didn't. Again there is more to come, and Jaskier moving on to follow up on the what he discovered.


	3. King

No cheerful rays spread from the sun as it slept behind a layer of clouds thick enough to lend a bleary atmosphere. The winds were too lazy to drive off the mist that met the buildings, swirling obscuring even the lamplight to guide one’s way. The indecisive pattern of warm and cool left ground pockmarked by thin ice and deeper puddles, a treacherous web to tread through on shaky legs. While these outlying villages were bleak in comparison to the grandeur of the better districts in the best cities, Jaskier thought today appeared particularly grey. 

Jaskier bit his lip as hard shiver washed through him. His ratty cloak while patched was not enough to drive off the chill of this winter. His silk jacket been ruined by what he was assured had been required to try restore the garment from his trip through the river and rough countryside. His matching pants he wore anyway, the fabric piled and pulled, and held together only with ugly stitching. The stained shirt hanging off his bandaged shoulder was not his, nor did he not ask from whom it came. The stretch through his back was only rivaled by the stiffness in his legs. A heaviness set in his chest, and while he understood such admittedly minor calisthenics were essential for proper recovery, this walk was the farthest thing from a pleasurable diversion. 

In truth, while the company was pleasant, Jaskier felt more an intruder as he spent less time sleeping, becoming more cognizant as he healed. His own supply of money was in danger of running thin, and if his wound was not troublesome, he would be forced by necessity to move on before he burnt through his reserves. The town site itself was not well stocked, many of its hidden troves had been taken with the Nilfgaardian troops before they transferred out. The building carrying the Temerian standard now, military horses tied to hitching posts outside, was the most promising prospect of acquiring provisions. 

The age old tradition of trading of stock and gambling among quartermasters and acquisition officers could surely be manipulated to his advantage. Jaskier had a bit of money to start himself, and once he acquired something more, he would be able to arrange for what his essentials. If he retained some of his luxury goods, he would have started off from a better bargaining position. Luckily, the games of chance that were an open secret in every organized military organization would provide him an avenue to improve his fortunes. 

For dice or cards, the maths beat into Jaskier at Temple School as when he was a lad must have been fated for this purpose. If sums and probabilities had been taught in this context, he surely would have been a near sighted professor with a hunch in his back instead of a virile advocate of the arts. Such professors had damn sight more comfortable existences, if devoid of romance. But vocally supporting explaining the logistics of gambling youngsters in religious schooling may not receive the intended result, even if his aim was to produce more studious and motivated pupils. Regardless, the talents he painfully acquired made it simpler to work the money into his pocket, considered unscrupulous only if counting cards was regionally frowned upon. 

Jaskier banged on the door of the outpost, and once announced, let himself in. The men looked up from their table and a couple scowled. The sight of one of them tucking a deck into his pocket, improved Jaskier’s faith his plan would come to fruition this morning. “Don’t let me you disturb fine combatants, for I understand I owe you a great debt for delivering my injured person into tender ministrations of the lady Milah. I only wish to convey my thanks for not turning away this humble bard, truly a commendation of the fraternal spirit of the victorious North.” 

Jaskier flourished his words with elegant bow, somewhat diminished by the poor state of his attire, and the shagginess of his hair, so long he had parted it away from eyes. At least he bore a fresh shave, assisted by Milah herself that morning, before she more or less kicked him out to convalesce with gentle exercise. After his disappointment when he had her clarify what she implied by “gentle exercise”. 

“Aye our forces have surely driven out those blackguards, that’s true. But we’ll hold this territory until we have confirmation there will be no regrouping of Nilfgaard’s forces.” The sergeant answered, looking somewhat disarmed. 

“Perfect gentlemen, I know the town’s people have spoken highly of the protections you’ve offered.” Jaskier nodded diplomatically, suppressing the memory of the grumbling words overheard the previous evening about the Temerians parading around, and demanding simple services for free. But the fresh grave markers by the shrine on the edge of town, kept the comments peaceably unsupported. 

“And you sir owe us nothing, just took you to get some help. That’s all.” The man who had visited Milah the last two nights, and left her smiling spoke up. His voice was gruff and familiar. 

“Oh, but I feel such a boon cannot be so easily brushed aside.” Jaskier stepped forward, tilting his head submissively, a grin on his lips, a timely blink. “Let me sit with you, I can offer gripping tales of any vein, or word of the other parts of this continent. I have travelled far, spent time in the presence of many interesting companies, your venerable king included.” 

A few of the men shifted, leaning eagerly, glancing around the long table. The inclination for gossip was not in the sole custody of the church wife. The sergeant patted a spot at the head of the table. “Have seat then Master, you still look a bit pale around the mouth. It wasn’t long ago the war nearly took you from this earth. You must tell us what brought you to the parts, and wounded so. Need something to eat, we still have fresh apples, some cheese and bread?”

“This early in the morning…. I never make a habit of starting to eat before noon. Only if I have beer with it.” Jaskier waggled a hand at the tapped keg on a far table. 

A round of laughter almost started a pain behind his eyes. Jaskier beamed, and forced a cheeky glint into his eyes. He would have to be careful, a certain sharpness was vital to profit in this game. Jaskier picked at the food, before having a lusty drink of the beer, the heat flowing through immediately. For a bawdy house, the orders of Milah had kept him from all of his more favourite vices. 

And to address present vices, “I fear you gentlemen were interrupted from your sporting pursuits with my arrival.” Jaskier flashed his left hand over, splaying his fingers dramatically, and walked a silver oren across his knuckles, it having appeared from nowhere. He dropped the coin to the table, having it land on its edge. Jaskier spun it and the light that flickered from its polished surface drew gaze of everyone in the room. If his right hand was not still sore and wrapped tightly he might have juggled instead. He slapped his hand down on the coin, when he lifted his palm to look which side faced up, it was gold laying on the table. “Head’s says we continue the game?”

“Only if you quit that sleight of hand.” The sergeant guffawed. “And the rest of us can’t afford to start so high.” 

“But of course, sirs. Let’s deal a few hands, and I’ll do my best to tell you a tale. Perhaps the story of a cursed outlaw king Nivellen, the Fanger, and his spectral lover.” Jaskier flexed his right wrist, and observed the sums on the table, deciding how much he would need to win to supplement his barter. 

The cards played out, and Jaskier slowly wove money around the table, with a slow tithe to himself. As long as he did not let himself get idle, too reckless and miss on his count of the cards, he would make enough for some simple provisions, paper, ink, and a set of clothes. The story he chose he knew well enough to tell it drunker than skunk in perfect internal rhyme, as he had told it last in such a state. Jaskier finished his second ale as he throat ran dry with the grisly end of Nivellen’s lover. Soldiers may tolerate a bit of poetry, but enjoyed it when underwritten with blood and sex. 

“Well your luck is turning Master Jaskier.” The sergeant eyed the pile of money in front of the Bard. 

“Up for trying to win it back? Come on now lads! Where’s your spirit?” Jaskier asked as he returned to the table with a newly filled stein. 

“Hmmm, no. The men need to patrol, and we’re expecting news from a runner this afternoon.” 

“But I can see you pining for your coin. Since I owe you, as much as you might deny the debt, I would be willing to donate it back as drinking money, for a few simple items of your reserves.” Jaskier grinned as innocently as he could. 

“We can’t be handing out weapons.” The sergeant said firmly. “Though I can understand you’ve certain need.” 

“Shame, indeed not,” Jaskier answered keeping his face inviting, not quizzical and shifting back his rear foot, opening his hands in front of him, palms up. He was also an excellent actor, and all working actors were astute students of human nature. He was on the precipice of learning something important that they thought he knew already, pertinent to his safety and circumstances, Jaskier was sure of it. 

Another soldier’s voice broke into the conversation, clearly anxious. “Because the White Wolf has died hasn’t he?” The room scrutinized Jaskier. “He came through here a few days before you did, nearly fully dead in the back of some merchant’s cart. Merchant only said the witcher drove off a pack of monsters, saved his life. You haven’t really spoken of that Geralt except in past mention, but your friendship is legendary. Your grief is plain.” 

Jaskier’s look of worry was not feigned, but it took all of his skill, emboldened by his performer’s mask already entrenched, to change this surge of hope to sorrow. Jaskier summoned all the pain of their parting from Geralt’s harsh words, to his blindness when it came to Geralt’s poor management of relationships. Jaskier forced himself to maintain the terror, as Jaskier had surely believed even days ago the brutal exchange was to have been the last time he would have seen his best friend. He was parted from the man who meant everything to him, forever unreconciled. A few tears spilled, and Jaskier spoke from the part of himself that did very much grieve the witcher. “To speak so plainly. A minute. Sorry.”

Jaskier fell shakily to chair, again, not feigned. The lightheaded dread lingered; the rush of coincidences. He was so close, and yet so lost. Geralt had been here, in this place not so long before, but hurt. Badly, if the soldiers were sure he had died, but Jaskier’s unremitting faith in the witcher tempered his belief in the men’s assertions. Geralt made it out of Cintra. He had not been slaughtered with the princess in the city walls. But now laid so low, Geralt looked upon death’s door to men experienced with such. Despite Geralt’s fatalistic assurance that was his retirement plan, Jaskier refused to believe something in the badlands would be able to kill Geralt. Not when Cirilla skirted her ill fate. But they were still separated, Geralt had travelled with a merchant, not the girl. 

It was all supposition of course, rumours of Ciri, first from a brute and likely Nilfgaardian spy, and now a sighting from guardsmen of the witcher. But they had been in the same area, what if. What if. If the witcher had found the girl, too many knew they had been bound. Jaskier had sung the ballad about Pavetta and Duny on every street stage for years, at every betrothal, during every marriage, and every two penny king had personally attended that bloody night, where he so selfishly dragged the witcher to peek under Destiny’s skirts. 

The men looked on at Jaskier expectantly, sympathetic, yet morbidly curious about the fate of the man who was a living legend. Too many people could associate Geralt with Cirilla, if she was truly alive and sought after by Nilfgaard. It had once benefited the witcher to have his courage and strength advertised to endear the world to him. Young Jaskier had seen Geralt had needed him for that, as much as Geralt needed anyone to see the real man he was. If Jaskier had also seen a business opportunity that he had profited from, it was the mutual companionship that made it work. 

The worn Bard that sat here, feeling too raw, and made a calculated choice. Geralt needed a new mythos now, if he was to escape safely north, with his Child Surprise. Too many coincidences, destiny’s hand was surely in motion. And Jaskier had been left to reconstruct Geralt’s image. This he would do for the witcher. This he could do. 

Jaskier cracked his voice on his first words. “I held his hand as he departed, the venom of the nekkers fatal in such large amounts.” He knew nothing of what had truly happened, but proposed the first monster he could think of that hunted in groups. Geralt would need to disappear and spies do not look hard for dead men. “The leapt at him on monstrous heron legs even as he whirled with his silver sword flashing. He danced his last that night, on that lonely bridge. 

“He had suffered alone for too long. It was a mercy when he finally passed.” He allowed himself to choke up, weep. It was not too much emotion for a Bard to part from his muse. “After, I could not stay. We burned him with his enchanted swords, and I left shortly to make my way alone. The Nilfgaardians made it difficult to get through, and I ended up running from a unit I stumbled into by surprise. The cut on my back was the least punishment I could have taken from those cowards who struck so many innocent. Others suffered far worse. I dove into the river to out swim their archers’ arrows.” 

“Oh Master, I know what it is to lose a comrade. Plenty of good ones lost their lives up on Sodden Hill, along with thirteen sorcerers. We will honor those that gave their lives, so easily to protect the common man. For us Soldier’s to die in battle, well that our trade, but those sorcerers could have lived forever.” The man, who looked fondly at Milah as he drank with her every night, spoke eloquently now drawing attention from the Bard, who was scrambling to piece together what direction to head next. Over to Riverdell, the road through here lead to Riverdell. 

“Which Sorcerers?” Jaskier cleared his throat to ask, knowing nothing good could come of their involvement to him personally. He would have to pass through the area, and knowledge of the parties involved would only assist him. 

“I’m not rightly sure, a coterie from the North held Sodden alone until our King and Kaedwan drove back the full might of Nilfgaard.” The Sergeant answered. “You knew of them too I wonder, for surely Geralt’s lover was a sorceress, you sang of her ebony black hair, and enchanting violet eyes. The obsidian star, a magical pendant to entrance unwary men.”

Jaskier gave a somewhat hysterical laugh. “You remember much detail.” 

“Quite a show you’ve put on before. Though I like the simpler stuff better, good jigs that get everyone up and singing along.” The sergeant clapped his hand on the Bard’s shoulder, jolting pain through the healing wound. “But you spoke of needing a few things, I can spare a set of clothes and some leather armours. Your attire is not adequate for the climate, and you obviously find trouble all on your own. It may not be to your taste, but I’d like to hear you sing again, safely back up in the North.” 

“Garments were part of my ask, yes. Simple linens are fine, not one for leathers really. And some paper and inks. Lost much of my work recently, would like to write something out, clear my head. And a small knife, nothing like a real weapon, a water bag.” He shifted the coins on the table meaningfully, and forked his winnings back over. “For your next night out men, to remember the ones we lost, the ones we loved.” 

The gruff voiced man came back with a bundle. “This will do for you, threw in a few bits of kit as well, Milah said you had little with you. If you won’t wait and come with the company back North, you’ll need a bit more to survive by yourself out there.”

“I must away soon. But thank you.” Jaskier said, noting the weight. A set of leathers must have been included. He clinked his coins again, and slipped the gold into the middle of the stack, concealed by wider pieces. 

“You’ll perform tonight, at Bran’s? Won’t you Master?” The youngest one pouted. 

“I will. The stage calls to me.” 

Jaskier knocked on the panels of the door leading to what had been his shelter. The heavy bundle was over his left shoulder, and his right hand hid behind his back. Lacey’s eye appeared as the door cracked and she visibly relaxed and let him through. She had been alone, and looked forlorn. Her age was easier to gage than his own, but she looked it, now as he supposed he did too. She opened her mouth he was sure to comment on something that offended her, but he brought his right hand out, too quickly for she jumped with surprise, and he flinched with pain. 

Lacey chuckled, once she forced herself to take a breath. “If you were trying to replace Milah’s herb stocks, you’ve gone too floral.”

“I do know a few things about medicinal plants, but no, I picked these for their beauty and their fragrance, for you.” Jaskier turned over his bouquet, wrapped together by a piece of lace he’d stolen from a wash line. Someone would be missing their table runner. 

“And whose yard did you pilfer. You’ll get run out of town by the mayor’s wife if I don’t miss my guess.” Lacey appeared to be annoyed, but spun his arrangement in her hands, and smelled the blue spruce boughs, flowered viburnum, and hellebores. 

“I’ve loitered too long, been too underfoot. Staying this long at a brothel, should have been a better time, yeah? I mean to leave in the morning anyway.” Jaskier risked looking in her eye, and she held his gaze. Good.

“You still look terrible.” Lacey told him. “I’ve seen more spirited geriatrics, had much livelier.” 

“I’d bet you have!” Jaskier laughed, the made eye contact for his own confession, pulling his jaw back, “So have I.” He smirked remembering fondly the dowager duchess of Aedirn, who had been an exquisite conversationalist with other verbal skills. “I’d say both of us are more resilient than others would expect.” Jaskier hummed, and sat down on stool, so he had to look up at the woman. 

Lacey looked at her feet and then back up. “You’ve been crying.” She stated, her eyes squinted. “Why?”

Jaskier flinched, and scrubbed his face. “Had to confront truths, I guess. Reminded of ugliness in the world. Guard’s mentioned the dying man that passed through here with the merchant.” 

“Yurga and the dying witcher.” Lacey stopped. “Oh, he was your witcher wasn’t he? You called for him dreadfully. I’m sorry.”

“I miss him.” Jaskier said, not wanting to lie right now. 

Lacey pulled him up into a hug, though he towered over the woman. He held her loosely and slowly tightened his grip as he knew she would not recoil. 

“We’ll be okay.” Lacey said simply.

She did not spring away from him as the door opened and Milah entered, a basin of steaming water in her already wet hands. The woman inclined her head at the stool. “Let me check your shoulder, if it’s not scabbed well over you shouldn’t be going anywhere. Asking for infection to come back if it opens up with no one to help you with it.

“How was the walk? Good for your lungs to get up around, yes, pull your shirt off.” Milah unwound the bandages, and pulled off the dry dressing. She dabbed around the edges, only eliciting a throb of dull discomfort, nothing like the burning in the days before. “We’ll leave it open tonight, to make sure it’s dried up. I’ll see you off tomorrow if things are well.”

“The poet brought you flowers.” Lacey held out the bouquet to the other woman. 

“Those flowers are desperately dehydrated.” Milah laughed and unwound the lace from them. A wooden stein with some of the wash water served, and she stood it on the shelf by the door. The presentation on a whole was lackluster, the stems looking a little droopy, but the blooms were still bright and sweet-smelling. 

The lace fluttered between her fingers. “Well if it is for me, I suppose I can boil this up, use it to secure a dressing in the future, it’s long enough.” 

Lacey huffed and ripped it easily from Milah’s fingers. “You’ll do no such thing.” Lacey shuffled everything off the shelf, and laid the lace out, on a piece of red velvet, and centered the flowers again. “A little class.” 

Jaskier stood, and redressed in the new clothes provided by the outpost soldiers. He was glad they included a belt. The light deerskin trousers Jaskier pulled over his own, recalling the volume of chamomile needed to mitigate chafing from such harsh clothing. The fresh shirt was blessing, though it took him a while to it thread up. A hooded and padded shirt, he pulled over top, it was meant to go under chainmail. The studded leather jacket did up easily, as it fell loose over the layers, though it hung heavily on his shoulder. A thick pair of gloves, he shoved in the pockets. Jaskier fussed with his riding boots, pulling them over the pants. 

Jaskier spun around for them. “Not really me, is it.” His coin purse, now disturbingly thin, he tucked into the neck of the padded shirt. 

The women stared, and did not speak to agree with him. “It so much dull leather, no flash at all. No one will know me, or offer to pay me to act a troubadour wearing this. It just does not say Master Bard!” Jaskier argued with their silence. “Well you both can keep your comments to yourself then. If you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all.”

Lacey listed her head. “If I hadn’t wiped your ass for you in the last week, and you hadn’t just opened your mouth, I would have called you a handsome rogue.” 

“Maybe with a haircut.” Milah bit in. “Maybe.’’

“Oi, hey!”

The night came up faster than Jaskier expected, he had fallen asleep against the wall in their room, lulled by the soft voices and the smell of clean cut spruce. Jaskier woke to find a folded blanket behind his head, and a covered plate of hearty stew with soggy bread still hot on the floor next to his feet. And less desirably cold medicinal tea with a pitcher of well water. Jaskier indulged himself heartily after choking down the bitter tangy brew. This was likely the last good meal he could expect until he arrived at the next real town. He had already paid Bran for a few bits of travel food, none of it near as appealing as the hot meal. 

As Jaskier finished scooping the dish into his mouth without his courtly manners, Bran pushed the door open seeking him. “Sing for us Bard, would you. The crowd’s begging. Whole town’s swarming in there, or have their head’s in through the windows. Can’t even send the girls upstairs, got to keep the drinks served, and the food rolling.” 

Jaskier raised his eyebrow expectantly. “Sounds like a lucrative night for you.” 

“Hold a grudge do you poet? Fine, give you a share in the morning. Ten percent.”

“Twenty-five.”

“Seventeen.”

“Done, though only through the deepest appreciations of your house.”

Jaskier stood himself up, trying not to groan. “You really should just let Milah work as healer out of one the rooms. Might get a fair bit of business from those seeking her out her fair touch. I will certainly send those I meet her way.” 

“Sound advice. Might keep her quieter, and out of my business.” Bran agreed. “I’m happier cooking than running this place, truth be told. My brother did the front end, worked things out with the girls.” 

“Put Lacey in charge as hostess. Have her hire some new courtesans. Plenty of widowed women need work, and they trust places ran by matron’s more. Happy girls will mean better business.” Jaskier offered. 

“Hmmm, would let me get back to cooking. Know Tommen took his share of advice from her anyway.” Bran nodded. “But such a change will be easier if the crowd feels generous tonight.”

“Oh sir, you forget to whom you speak. I invented inspiring benefaction through song. I’ll leave those lucky to be here more parched than if we crossed a dessert from their singing and clapping along. Do be prepared to sate their thirst, keep the drinks flowing.” 

To start the evening a few jaunty pieces were played, but his wrist tired, so Jaskier told the tale of the last “Silver” Dragon for the first time without a shred of bitterness, highlighting Geralt’s gallant actions, and disparaging Boholt’s gang as uncouth Southern raiders. Geralt and Yennefer had left together victorious of course, as the Dragon flew away with his secreted prize. Jaskier had of course changed circumstance to protect Borch, but the whole thing was so fantastical, it was hardly worth the effort. 

After the grand conclusion, Jaskier broke down and crooned a sweet lament for the witcher lost in the recent upheaval, with a few quick chords he plucked on his lute to set a mood. A bastardization of a funereal piece for ancient warrior king, but too old to be outed here for plagiary. Jaskier had been called a liar before, by Geralt himself, among other indecorous, true, slurs, and he did not deny it then. What Jaskier would make of himself, at least he had noble purpose, this time. 

“You’re welcome.” He said to Geralt, as the crowd’s clapping and cheering faded. Timed perfectly, as usual. 

Word of Geralt’s heroic end would spread by the onlookers present that night. Sweep it would from the lips of the soldiers- first hand witnesses, those townspeople that sat here tonight who would likely claim to know his final resting spot, and the traders that sat together in the corner would offer up the gossip as a pricey part of their transactions. Jaskier analysed the last group, as it might offer him easier travelling in the morning light should they be headed in the correct direction. 

Milah and her soldier cuddled in a dark corner. Lacey sat at the bar, alone, but attentive. The two other girls sat at tables with the men at arms when they rested their feet during silence demanded by the performance. Jaskier made his way through a tavern’s usual repertoire next, constrained by his still swollen wrist. 

The night was growing long, and while Jaskier had not indulged under Milah’s apparent strict instruction to keep him sober, his head was truly aching now. And in the early morning, Jaskier needed to get to Riverdell post haste, and then maybe north to catch his witcher and warn him of the danger, keep him from the public eye.

“One more song!” Lacey called out, her voice sure over the crowd. 

Jaskier met her look and bowed, and set his lute on the table next to him. While a harmony would have been preferred, the mood was set, and he needed no music for this piece. It was somber and thoughtful, romantic and heartfelt, everything to wind down the crowd, leave them wowed, emotional and ready to disperse. 

“For those that will never leave from Sodden Hill. Those that may never have seen true love in front of them.

“I can hear the cannons calling, as though across a dream.  
And I can smell the smoke of hell, in every stitch and seam.  
And like flowers the bodies tumble around this muddied lot.  
I cannot hear them scream forget me not.

Your voice it carries over the hubbub and the hum…”*

*Excerpted from the Amazing Devil’s Song “Elsa’s Song”, by Joey Batey and Madeleine Hyland


	4. The Horror and the Wild

The wandering troubadour of nowhere in particular had graced a few fine establishments for the noble elite, differentiated solely by the cost. The Passiflora was the most well-known, for its gilded frame, the scented candles burning in every hollow, and the beauties marketed for every conventional appetite of the lords and ladies, and all appealing to his. He performed in many that were well-kept for the wealthy untitled, gaining a reputation for himself among the obscenely rich as well as prominent scholars. Jaskier usually found himself in the better class of pub affordable for the common man both to entertain and to stay, but the building he was brought to this afternoon was a repurposed pisshole. 

The atmosphere did not merit to rank among dingiest of pubs and was in fact rancorous with what had to be weeks’ accumulation of drunken vomit and excrement. Absent was a central hearth used anywhere else for light, heat and cooking. This place was cool with only a poorly vented stove in the corner of the room. The light was dim and entirely unsuitable to even converse with the fellow next to him. The furniture was poor quality, wobbly and repaired from nightly brawls with poorly placed nails and old bits of course twine. All of these things were readily apparent to the bard, who hovered there unwilling to sit or signal that he was ostentatiously comfortable with these surroundings.

As Jaskier had stepped off the back of the wagon, part of caravan of tinkers, traders and tradesmen making for less war-torn parts of the continent, he had heard himself hailed by a man leaning against the building with a sign too weathered to read. The man who called himself Yurga patted a three legged stool next to bar that had never seen a polish cloth. He had looked up and away, before reciting his name, failing to identify his family or his profession as was customary, and then directed a meaningful glance at the least hospitable building Jaskier had yet entered. 

The name Yurga had struck a chord of familiarity with Jaskier, who followed him into the depraved excuse for an alehouse. Jaskier kept a tight grip on his possessions, and relieved he did not have a visible purse of money. “What do I owe this introduction to?” Jaskier asked, glancing about. No one else took any interest in his person. No one was crowding up behind him. This man appeared to be working alone. 

This Yurga was incongruous. His dress was poor in dusty dark colors, unkempt, but he had a new set of black boots. Jaundice overtook the whites of his eyes, as it was set off wonderfully by the yellow and rot in his teeth displayed in a crocodile’s grin. His face had hard creases, but was more tanned than should have been expected for the season. What was left of his hair struck up in patchy matts. His hands were hidden, perhaps for warmth, but he fiddled with something in his cloak pocket, the action continuous and distracted. Even in the shadows of the room, it was easy to see the three long scratches across the man’s face. The deepest parts were an angry color, though the injury was days old. 

“We have a mutual friend.” The response was almost snide. And most unhelpful. Jaskier had many fair weather friends, and many dealings with folks who veiled themselves as such, but were decided too self-interested or politically motivated to be more than associates. And he was not expecting to check in with anyone who introduced themselves as such, until he was much further north. 

“If you bring word of a mutual friend, isn’t it something we might discuss more plainly in private?” Jaskier looked the man over again. He bore no insignia dictating a loyalty, but the boots were military issue, mass produced and stiff. “Ah, not really the place for such business.”

“What kind of business are you expecting?” The man looked at the bard with new scrutiny. His eyes swept over the Bard’s attire, and to the corner of his shoulder, where his belongings were visible. “Thought you’d appreciate somewhere out of the wind and a drink.” The enunciation on some of the words also sounded off color, not at all a local dialect. The fricative’s were entirely missed, some of his speech blended together. A medley surer from Attre, than accents prominent around the Yaruga. 

“If we truly had the same friends, I wouldn’t need to answer. And you would have made appropriate introductions in a more proper space.” Jaskier was glad he had remained standing. “I’m not clear what your purpose is, you might have me mistaken for someone else in these turbulent times.” 

“I wanted to buy a thirsty man a drink is all, the ale up north is far more interesting.” The man offered, shaking a swollen purse. “Consider it a gift, a gesture of goodwill. Not a lot of goodwill, going around. Lots of desperate folk around, fleeing from the Battle for Cintra.”

“Uh, what you intend to buy with that fat purse, in place like this, can’t all be for the beer. And I’m more of a wine man myself.” Jaskier backed up. Looks were cast at them now, but the focus was on the money held aloft in the man’s grip. The sleepy barman even looked up from his station in the corner by the stove, his boot heels had come down from their propped rest. 

“Well, I’d like some of your time to talk about our friends. I hear you like to talk, real agreeable like. Not just when you’re prancing about on stage.” The man pushed up with a sigh. Jaskier shook his head made for the door. “Fine. I wait on a drink for now.” 

Jaskier noted how shaky the man’s hands were before they made contact with the sticky wooden surface, and distinctive illness in the tinge to his eyes. “For not long I bet.” The man jutted his chin out, but growled out a breath that wound down, and made to follow him. Jaskier swallowed and spoke, checking his tone. “Heard from who? What mutual friends, as you say?” Jaskier kept walking, not certain what do to do if the man followed. He wondered where the party he had travelled with had settled- the inn, the town hall, or the market square. The place was sprawling, vaster than he had expected. 

Jaskier headed towards the stables out of habit. Jaskier knew he was in the general area the merchant resided, the rescued man who had in turn sheltered the injured witcher. The merchant whose name was Yurga. Odd coincidence, but the man who had attached himself to the bard was not as the burly, caring man had been described. Low chance Geralt remained in the area, it had been sometime that Jaskier had been delayed in following. But if Geralt was slowed by an injury, he may have ventured out recently enough the stableman would recall his mount and unique style of tack. Such things stuck out to enthusiasts, let alone the impression a white haired armoured man with two swords and yellow eyes would make. 

The man who had named himself Yurga, caught up next to the bard. Huffing, annoyed, “nah, just some mouthy bitch, thought she was better than trash.” He gestured at his face. “She talked, a bit too much, thought to waste the time I paid for by talking about you, a famous guest. Like you’d want to hear about another man in whore house. Socked her good back for these cat scratches.” 

“I don’t believe we would have anyone in common, I don’t associate with scoundrels like you.” Jaskier snapped back, and saw he was alone with the man he was trying to warn Geralt about. A man with a cruel heart and a temper, who proved himself capable of at least intimate assault. 

“But we do have a common friend. I helped your Geralt, after he saved me from a swarm of drowners. I took him with me, he could barely sit his horse. But he followed me to get his reward. Expensive git.”

“And yet you have plenty of coin left, you knave. Normally, I’d be dying to hear the rest of your sordid tale, but not in the market right now. Actually working entirely in fantastical romances, really just children’s stories.” Jaskier bit off, feeling like he was becoming ensnared. The liveryman had absconded from his charges evidently, not another humanoid was in the stable. This man was a Nilfgaardian spy, and selected for his persistence more than cleverness. He must have heard at least part of the same story Jaskier had, and tried to force himself into the role to gain the bard’s confidences. 

“I’m a what, a scoundrel or a knave. Your witcher and I got along just fine, two peas in a pod.” The man’s face was nothing like a smile. 

“Uh, really, I must be going, or does this conversation have a point?” Jaskier tried to get past the man, but again he drew out his purse. But left his other hand hidden in the cloak pocket. 

“If you see your friend again, let me know. He missed getting his just reward, I must make that right. What’s the song I’ve heard, Toss a Coin at your Witcher?” He shoved the bard back into the barn.

Jaskier’s gut turned to ice. Not only were the words egregiously off-key, they held a menace that frightened more than offended the bard. “Ah, yeah. Message received. But I think our ‘business’ is concluded. Off you go!” 

“So you haven’t heard word of Geralt, or anyone one else he’s with?” The man pressed, his hand in his pocket again. 

“Nope, just got in today. Think you saw him last actually.” Jaskier swallowed hard. His new knife, was bundled up, likely on the bottom of his pack. The straps were digging into his shoulder, and his lute case was the most solid thing he could reach easily though physical confrontation was not his thing. He forced down the urge to take swing, or poke holes in the ruse presented to him. The back of his knees caught the edge of a hay bale, and Jaskier tumbled, sitting roughly. He rolled to take the pressure off his lute case. The pull through his shoulder with the sudden torque reminded him more directly of the need to be circumspect. 

“I’ll keep my eye out, but I doubt he’s anywhere near here. Favours winter’s at the coast. Sunsets, the voluptuous mermaids, long walks on sandy beaches.” Jaskier watched the man’s face approximate a victory.

“Alright Bard. But if you do hear something.” He shook his coin purse. “It will be worth your time, you get paid to squawk, holler and bend over anyway.” 

“Fuck off.” Jaskier spit out. “I really think you should leave. Before I report you to the watch.” 

The Nilfgaardian spy took a step closer, then faced away. “Should have pretended to play nice. You’re no smarter than the whore.” He turned suddenly, and swung a small scrap of metal and leather, striking the bard across the unbruised half of his face. Jaskier fell away, cracking the opposite side of his head on the cool floor of the barn. Stunned, everything was spinning giddily around him. The world went white. He was kicked to his ribs, and his mouth and nose scraped the pungent cobbled floor, before his head flopped to the side. His arms were yanked behind his back as his pack and lute were ripped from him. Something was said to him, the words suppressed under the coursing in his ears, and then he felt another kick to his hip. The pain roused him and he rolled away. A few shouts, and the sound of fleeing feet. 

“Fuck.” Well Jaskier tried to speak, but throbbing in his temple erupted through his face. Metal filled his mouth. He choked on it and spat to the floor. He circled with his tongue the inside of his rapidly swelling cheek gouged from his teeth. The man had caught him when he was about to speak with what must have been a blackjack. He palpated the impact point just in front of his ear, and was relieved to find the skin intact, though with the amount it was pulsing, if it split it may have hurt less. He wanted to keep lying there, but was aware enough to contemplate the depth of the shittiness his situation. No one was going to pick him up. 

Jaskier fought through the heaviness in his ribs, and rested his back against the bale, cradling his head ingloriously, hoping he would be able to see straight before the spy came back to just slit his throat. A loud and wet crunch interrupted his musing. Jaskier gingerly looked up to pair of blue and brown eyes of a skewbald horse, more white than roan. It snorted and tossed its head victoriously. Then reached down to grab the fallen half of the Bard’s apple, and helped itself with big chomping bites. The rest of the contents of the bag were scattered in front of the animal having rolled into the first stall. Jaskier brought his lute to him, and hugged it to his chest. It would have been so easy for the man to have grabbed it, but perhaps it was too bulky and too hard to sell. 

“Good horsey, be a good chap, no need to kick, I’ll just pull these things out of your way. Though if you do strike out, just do me a favor and put me out of my misery. That would just be perfect, top, after the week I’ve had.” 

Jaskier crawled to collect his things, and groaned piteously. The horse did not in fact protest, but he did not lift his hoof off a sheaf of blank paper. Every ache accumulated in the last week renewed, joined by the harsh flexion on his hip, the inadequate pants of breath and the pounding through his head. He found everything except his leather bound journal. That journal contained the remnants of his last great song, and the beginnings of a new ode to Geralt’s triumphant, fictitious death. He chortled and his eyes watered. How he found the journal had mocked him, to remain so despairingly empty, his paltry creative efforts of late not worthwhile to be written. And now that he had inspired something worth committing to the rich paper, it was stolen from him. The spy must have taken it hoping to find insights. “Enjoy the fiction, you prick.” 

The bard had stayed there, hunched over, drowning in the loss, the pain for too long. He had been surprised, and reacted rashly, stammering, insulting and entirely botching the interaction. The spy could have been directed successfully elsewhere, or Jaskier could have actually admitted he and witcher had fallen out, and he had not seen the man in half a year, and did not expect to ever again. He could have played it a hundred different ways, if he had been prepared. He had not done well under pressure. He never had, he was not half a charming as he intended, unscripted out of his element. His only talent was in peacocking in a ballroom, or at the front of a crowd in a tavern or lecture hall on the rare opportunity he had to speak at the University. Of his possessions only his lute remained to him, everything else of his identity had been stolen or lost to misfortune. He was sure he even would look a stranger to himself in a mirror, beaten beyond recognition, beard unshorn, his hair long unevenly parted from his brow. The clothing he wore was alien. 

Introspection and self-loathing had never been his pursuits, but he was rapidly becoming more adept. He was sick to his stomach, and he clenched to keep himself from vomiting scared of the pain through his chest. Jaskier cried out when the ache at the corner of his maxilla spiked. And perhaps this was why the soft footsteps behind him stopped before he heard them. 

An unsure intake of breath Jaskier did hear, as he turned with a groan to assess who had found him whimpering in the muck. Jaskier scrubbed a hand over his face, combing his hair from his eyes back over his forehead. Dirt and dung came away, and Jaskier brushed his hand over his studded black jacket. He was unfocused, but he raked his eyes over the petite form, wrapped in a once rich blue cloak. White blonde hair was braided, but hung over her shoulder. He knew those eyes, the exceptional shade of blue, on the regal pixie face. 

“Fuck. Uh. Princess.”

The bard scrambled to haul himself up. His words were thick, garbled by the swelling in his mouth and the fresh agony stiff through his jaw. “Why now! We’ve got to hide. You can’t stay here. Um. Shit. Owe. Come here.” He was up to his knees, when she surprised him. 

“Who are you? How did you find me?” Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, last of her line, the Lion Cub of Cintra brandished a silver knife and snarled. “If you come near me, I’ll, I’ll.” She glanced behind her and shook her head in clear frustration. She started shivering belying her bark. 

“Uh, Princess. You must come with me, we’re in danger, I think Nilfgaard’s after you.” Jaskier started, but she picked up a horse shoe, hanging by the door and whipped it at him. It struck him in the thigh as he gained his feet.

“Don’t pretend you know me, you’re a liar. I’ve not seen you before in my life!” Her lips trembled, and her beautiful eyes became shiny with fear, but Jaskier must have been more unsteady than he thought, because it seemed the entire barn shook. 

“Lady Ciri, it’s I, Jaskier. I performed last for your birthday, I um, I promise, I want to help.” He winced and grabbed his head in one hand, as several of the horses whinnied in terror. He heard a few crashes behind him. The twang of his lute case bouncing off the brick. He made himself advance with a trepidation he was going to experience what Pavetta’s daughter was capable of, but extended a hand to grip her knuckles. 

He went to a knee, and kissed the back of her hand, where her ring should have been. She slashed and caught the blade on the leathers he wore. “Princess!” 

Her eyes were dilated and her head whipped back. He bowed his head, and forced his jaw to work. “Her current is pulling me closer, and charging the hot humid night. The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool better get out of sight. I’m weak my love, and I am wanting…” 

The air stilled and he risked a look up with her, and she was frozen staring at him in disbelief. “I know, I’ve looked better, I can’t fault you for not knowing me.” 

Jaskier tried to give her his signature charming smirk, but he flinched. Something grated in face. “We’ve got to leave together now. There’s at least one spy looking for you here, sooner we can get out of town the better.” The words were beyond painful to get out, and make clear enough for her to understand. 

“It is you.” Ciri huffed, and stared at the knife in her hand. “I’m sorry, I think, I don’t know if I can trust you.” 

Jaskier rose, wobbled on his feet clumsily. “Oh, wow. I’m,” her strong arms encircled his waist, “supposed to be helping you.” 

“You can’t follow me.” She shoved him back onto the bail. And grabbed a lead. “Tie yourself up or something.” 

Whatever Ciri was going to reply was cut off by a strong grip on his shoulder as he was torn away from her. Jaskier clutched at the man dragging him. Nausea enveloped Jaskier as the sudden movement made him loose sense of the floor. “Run girl!” He begged. 

The man made to throw him against the stall half wall, but Jaskier did not let go and pulled the man with him, and suffered twice the impact through his back. The man levered a punch to Jaskier’s gut, and he did crumple then, retching across the straw. 

“Ciri, are you alright?” The worried tone barely cut through the waves crashing in his ears. Jaskier overbalanced and fell face first into the floor. 

“I almost did it again. Lost control again. I’m sorry I just should have ran. But I know him from before. Grandma invited him a few times. Mousesack knew him too.” 

Jaskier huddled there, pathetic, but tried to rise. The knuckles on his fists turned white. He had to get up. Ciri was not safe. Someone was here. She had to believe him. 

“He knows about Nilfgaard, said there’s a spy, a spy here.” She spoke faster now. 

“Hmmm. We’ll have to make do with what we have then. Need to get out of town. Nothing to do for it now, I wasn’t the only one who heard the commotion.” The low tone of affection usually so reserved, the deep gravelly voice always so brusque. 

“What about him? He knows I’m here. He’ll say something. I’m scared Geralt.” 

“I’m here, Ciri, I’ll keep you safe.” 

The strong grip returned to his shoulder and held him back against the boards. “Fuck.” Jaskier could not tell who uttered it first. He laughed, low and heartily. He needed to argue his own defense, as the man considered him a threat, and did not know who he had thrown down. Unless he did, and it did not matter. If he had ever mattered. 

He could barely make out the witcher’s face. But the grip on his shoulder loosened, then tightened almost too firmly.

“No. That laugh. No.” Geralt’s voice was soft.

“Do you know him, Geralt? He sang so wonderfully for my birthday. If Grandma invited him he must be famous. I don’t know what to do.”

“Jaskier!” 

The blood rushed from his head, and the shallow breaths he could not take overwhelmed him, and the Bard’s eyes rolled back in his head.

**Author's Note:**

> You may have recognized some events from the short story Something More. Our favourite Bard had been down in Sodden when the chaos erupted, but in TV verse there would have been no Geralt to rescue our self described Muppet. Please let me know if you enjoyed this, I am working on more.


End file.
